


How Not To Get Your Friend a Date (or several things no one knew about Agent Washington)

by thehelpfulfrog



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Asexual Wash, F/F, F/M, M/M, ace!wash, just get together already guys, north and york should never be matchmakers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-08 01:43:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1921995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehelpfulfrog/pseuds/thehelpfulfrog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>North and York screw with Wash. Wash has performance anxiety, but finally learns how to screw back. South is probably the only one actually getting screwed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Not To Get Your Friend a Date (or several things no one knew about Agent Washington)

**Author's Note:**

> Because ace!Wash owns my heart forever. I think tumblr user catmiint gave me the basis for this idea, so this fic is for them.

“C.T.,” declares York with finality.

Wash glances up momentarily, before returning to his intense scrutiny of the packet of chips in his hand. And then he looks up again because Agents York and North Dakota are definitely staring at him, eyes wide, like a pair of expectant children.

It suddenly occurs to him that the two have been completely and uncharacteristically silent since he sat down across from them about a minute ago (speculating internally about just _why_ potato chips needed this many ingredients). Then it occurs to him that they have probably been staring this entire time as he pondered the endless mysteries of fried space foods.  The third thing to occur to him is that they are definitely still staring. York’s head is tilted slightly and he reminds Wash of one of his old cats. The one-eyed cat. Not necessarily because of the eye thing – well, maybe a little, but, the point was…

There was no point. North and York are still staring with their three functional eyes and no one is speaking.

Wash is vaguely aware that something is expected of him and entirely unaware of what that thing might be.  It’s a lot like his freshman year of high school, in which he was somehow mistaken for a thespian on the opening night of _Our Town_ and had been too intimidated to point out the mix-up until he was onstage in full costume. Or that time he accidentally went on tour with the volleyball team. Or, just, the _entirety_ of prom.

Freshman year had been fun.

No one is moving or speaking. Wash blinks twice and feels as though the entire world order may shatter if he speaks incorrectly.

“…Sorry?” he finally manages to ask.

North brings a juice box to his lips, incredibly slowly, and sips from it without breaking eye contact. “C.T.?” York repeats, only now it’s a question.

Wash shrugs, as though he has any worldly idea what his response or any part of this exchange means.

“Nah,” North provides helpfully, and then continues sipping.

Wash has definitely missed something. No one else seems concerned. Wash decides to resume comparing the people around him to the cats he has owned, and feels slightly less concerned.

York turns to North and extends a finger upward, clearly having reached an epiphany. “Niner,” he states matter-of-factly.

North shakes his head. “South.”

“South?”

“South.”

“Oh.” York turns back to the table, mouth scrunched up quizzically, and tilts his head again. Wash really misses that cat.

More time passes. York shrugs and shakes his head. “Wyoming,” he offers, with the tone of having depleted all his options.

“York.”

“I’m just-“

“York.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Wash fully exhausts the list of cats he has owned (mental note: a lot of cats), just as South abruptly deposits her tray next to her brother’s on the table and adds herself to the unofficial list of People Who Are Currently Staring at Wash Like He’s an Incredibly Perplexing Modern Art Fixture.

Wash recalls a brightly lit stage in a certain high school gymnasium, and quickly diverts all his attention to obtaining the delicious, freeze-dried, questionably potato-based goodness from the packet in his hand.

“Maine,” South comments indifferently.

North turns to her. “Really? You want him losing his anal virginity to _that_?”

The bag of chips explodes.

“Oh, is he gonna start spluttering and flipping the hell out? I hate it when he does that.”

“Well, don’t make him think about Maine’s dick up his ass. That’s just intimidating stuff.”

“Hah, look at him, I think his soul just left his body.”

“Don’t be rude, York.”

“His face looks like a god damn loading screen.”

“Wow, that is actually really accurate.”

“Look, are we gonna figure this thing out or aren’t we?”

“You don’t have to.”

The last one to speak was Wash. All attention immediately turns back to him and the three Freelancers tilt their heads in unified cat-like curiosity.

Wash leans in closely, one elbow on the table.

“Agent Texas.”

He picks up one of the chips now strewn about in a wide radius around him and munches on it slowly, relishing the expressions on the three faces in front of him in the few seconds before they simultaneously erupt into aggressive questioning.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Wash rambles a lot. Yes, I did mean for that to sound intentional. No, it absolutely did not. I'm sorry.  
> I asked for prompts last time and didn't fill them. I have literally no excuse or any kind of reason why you should believe me this time, but I would still love your prompts if you have them. I actually kind of want to get serious this time. Therefore, don't hold back in the comments if you have anything constructive to say. Thanks much <3


End file.
